


an epicure, a thief

by suibian_distance



Category: Ocean's Eleven Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Driving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29073921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suibian_distance/pseuds/suibian_distance
Summary: Maybe it’s the time of day, but he’s beginning to fear the blue is seeping out of his eyes.
Relationships: Danny Ocean/Rusty Ryan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	an epicure, a thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleardishwashers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleardishwashers/gifts).



> title taken from emily dickinson's poem, "the oriole."
> 
> for deepa, the backbone of this entire fandom. thank you for reading it through in august.... i never did post it [crying emoji] you're the best!

Rusty dangles himself out of the passenger window awkwardly, brushing his thumb across the dirty surface of the stolen car’s wing mirror. He sees himself reflected behind all the grime and filthy, dried water, looking young and coltish and impressionable. He blinks, nonplussed, and it’s gone- just a fuzzied reflection of his tired, not-quite-young-not-yet-old features. Maybe it’s the time of day, but he’s beginning to fear the blue is seeping out of his eyes. 

Rusty shakes himself mentally, and retracts. He settles on just placing his elbow on the empty edge where the window’s been rolled down, just enough so the wind can ruffle his hair when he leans to his right. 

Speaking of directions (no one was), Danny’s stiff-backed and uncomfortably silent at his left, fingers uselessly tight around the padded steering wheel. Rusty watches as Danny presses lightly on the gas pedal and his hands tighten, white flooding his knuckles. 

“Yes?” Danny says, turning his head briefly. He looks back to the road, which is really just a ceaselessly grey and winding highway bordered sharply by greenish-brown farmland to the right and the even farther-stretching reign of cornfields to the left, leaving Rusty with a feeling of vague discomfort and little nagging stabs of some kind of emptiness that must come with getting old, or something. Not that he’s getting old, of course. Guys like him don’t. At least, they’re not allowed to. 

“Sorry?” 

“You were looking at me.” 

“Oh, just performing the fifth psychoanalyzation of the night. Where are we going?” 

Something like a smile graces Danny’s face, and he replies, words quick and achingly articulate, “You know, we can go- we can do anything.” Their eyes meet in the rear view mirror, and Rusty’s breath catches traitorously. 

Rusty smiles, leaning back onto the cracked brown-and-blue leather passenger seat. “Anything?” 

“Anything. Anywhere.” 

It’s an offer, only half-hidden this time, buried sloppily and hopefully under the sand, corners sticking out. Rusty ponders Danny’s tone, trying to wrestle down that bit of him that’s answering in the affirmative, because _yes_ , this is what he’s always wanted, for the _longest goddamn time_. 

He thinks about Danny’s knuckles, white on the steering wheel, the miles and miles of corn and grassy, untended farmland and white-dotted highway cement ahead of them, the itch of the peeling car seat leather, the way Danny’s lips shape his name (like he’s telling a secret- like he’s whispering the code to the vault)- 

...He can’t be sure, though. 

Rusty watches the last fading tendrils of sunshine set and glint off of Danny’s wedding ring. 

He says, “We’re almost out of gas,” and tries not to notice the disappointment that flickers lightning-fast behind Danny’s eyes.


End file.
